Sister of Rogues (32 page)

“Aye.” Jamie began to point the way until Mari's elbow poked into him. He frowned and then sighed as she nudged him again. He gestured. “Fiona's bedchamber is up the stairs.”

Fiona widened her eyes, but before she could speak, Kier scooped her into his arms, strode to the steps and took them two at a time. Reaching her chamber, he kicked the door shut and deposited Fiona on the bed.

“You are mine,” he said as he joined her. “Mine forever. Wherever you want to live, I will agree. If you wish to stay in London, I will move. If you want to return to Ireland, we will go. I only know I cannot live without you by my side. I want—”

“Tell me about forever again.”

Kier grinned at her. “You are mine—and I am yours—forever.”

“Forever,” Fiona agreed and the world stilled as Kier gathered her in his arms and kissed her.

About the Author

Cynthia Breeding developed a love for Scotland long before she took her first trip across the pond. Blending the rules of English Regency Society with the wilds of the Highlands was an adventure of its own.

Currently, the author lives in south Texas, basking on a balmy coast with her Bichon Frise. She enjoys sailing and horseback riding.

Cynthia can be reached via snail mail at 3636 South Alameda, B116, Corpus Christi, Texas 78411 or at her website:
www.cynthiabreeding.com
.

Slainte
(good health).

Look for these titles by Cynthia Breeding

Now Available:

Capture Her Heart

Rogue of the Highlands

Rogue of the Isles

Rogue of the Borders

He's a braw ship commander…until a petite English lass takes command of his heart.

Rogue of the Borders

© 2014 Cynthia Breeding

Rogue, Book 3

The first time Abigail Townsend laid eyes on Captain Shane MacLeod, she felt something she'd only read about in books. The Highlander sticks out in London society like a medieval warrior amidst lace-cuffed dandies, which makes him all the more intriguing.

Lord knows, she's bored with the stuffy, two-faced
ton,
and cares nothing for parties and fashion. She longs for adventure, not tea and crumpets.

By the time Shane realizes the lad his cook hired is a girl—an earl's daughter, no less—his ship is bound for a secret meeting of the Knights Templar, and there's no turning back.

Forced into a temporary marriage, Shane calls upon every ounce of his honor to keep her virtue intact—virtue she has no interest in keeping—so the marriage can be annulled after enough time has gone by. And as his resolve weakens, an old enemy takes advantage of his distraction to destroy him—and expose a Templar secret Shane may have to sacrifice his life to keep.

Warning: This title contains sexually explicit scenes and a stubborn young lady determined to get her Highlander.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Rogue of the Borders:

“What the—” Shane stopped himself from cursing. “How did ye get on board my ship?”

Abigail gave him a small smile. “I walked on, of course. Yesterday morning.”

“Ye walked on?” He'd barely finished the question when he realized the breeches and shirt the
lad
had been wearing lay on the floor beside her. He pointed. “Those are yours? Ye disguised yourself?”

She nodded and put her spectacles on. “I did not think you would allow me on board otherwise.”

“Ye are right about that.” Shane frowned. “What were ye thinking, lass? A ship is nae place for a woman.” He shuddered to think what might have happened last night if he'd let her sleep in the common area. “Do ye have any idea what my crew might have done to ye if they found out ye were a woman?”

Her face paled, but she raised her chin. “I was not planning to undress.”

“Nae planning—” Shane ran a hand through his hair. “The men were nae pleased ye'd ruined their dinner. For sure, they would have battered ye about. It would nae take long to realize 'twas a female they had in their midst. Ye'd have suffered more than just a few bruises.” Even as Shane said the words, he was amazed he hadn't recognized the lad was a girl. Maybe it
had
been too long since he'd had a woman. Abigail was too pale, her skin too soft, her hands well-cared for. Even her voice…he'd been a fool to think it a lad's that hadn't changed. He frowned again. “Why did ye do it?”

Abigail hesitated. “For the adventure.”

“For the adventure?”

She shrugged. “I have always wanted to travel.”

“Ye have always wanted to travel?” Shane repeated, realizing he sounded like a parrot, and then started to pace in the small space of his cabin. “There are proper ways to travel, lass. Ye doona hop on board a working schooner with a crew of men and nae chaperone.”

“Chaperones do not approve of adventure. Ladies are supposed be all excited about planning and attending parties. I am not,” Abigail answered. “Besides, I have used the disguise before when I wanted to watch the boat races on the Thames.”

“Ye have gone around London dressed as a boy?” Shane wasn't sure if he should find that amusing or horrifying. It almost sounded like something his pertinacious cousin Fiona would do. Though he'd never met an English lass with that kind of willfulness.

“I always wanted to know what it would feel like to actually sail. I really enjoyed the passage, except for the problem with the stew.”

Shane shook his head. “Ladies who wish to
sail
arrange for the Grand Tour aboard conventional ships.”

“Oh, Papa would never allow me to go to Europe.”

Shane stopped pacing in his tight circle and stared at her. Her
father
. The Earl of Sherrington. The man who had faced off with Ian in a duel over Sherrington's scheming wife—and a man Ian completely respected for it.

Suddenly, the problem of being accused of stowing a runaway lad shriveled into insignificance. Shane had a much, much bigger dilemma on his hands.

Without another word, he turned and went out the door, locking it behind him.

This trip hadn't turned out as Abigail had planned. She stood by the rail watching the bustle of the wharfs on the Thames as the
Border Lass
skimmed past Cutty Sark toward the landing stage at Deptford. It was the first time she'd been allowed on deck since the ill-fated conversation in Shane's cabin three days ago.

Abigail had envisioned—once the initial shock, and even anger, were over—that she would join Shane on deck, learning how to sail. Certainly she would help in the galley. Evenings would be spent having dinner together, perhaps with a glass of sherry, discussing history and literature. Mari had told her Shane was interested in both.

Instead, she had not seen Shane since he'd locked the door. The quartermaster had brought her meals, accompanied by a young sailor who took care of the chamber pot and brought fresh water for her to wash. Other than that, there had been no contact with any of the crew—or Shane. She had asked Donald MacFie if she could see Shane, but he'd shaken his head. When she'd asked to walk about on deck, he'd told her it wasn't safe. Safe from whom? Surely the crew didn't hold that much of a grudge over spilled stew. Was Shane that tremendously angry with her then? All she had wanted to do was give him a chance to get to know her without all those silly debutantes flittering around like annoying insects.

She glanced toward the stern. Shane had taken the helm and was busy maneuvering the boat toward the dock. Not that it mattered what he was doing. He hadn't even glanced at her when Donald escorted her on deck earlier.

As the crew cast lines to the dock handlers, Abigail could see her father standing on the wharf, waiting. She didn't have to be close enough to see his face. His posture—arms folded across his chest and feet apart—told her everything she needed to know. Shane's silent treatment was preferable to the lecture she knew would be forthcoming. On the bright side, her father might forbid her from attending any functions as punishment.

As soon as the lines were secured, Donald escorted her down the gangplank toward her father, who stood as though carved from stone, his eyes hard as granite as he watched Shane putting things to rights on deck. The earl waited until the quartermaster had taken his leave before he glanced down at his daughter.

“Are you still a virgin?”

Abigail gasped, her cheeks heating. “Of course, Papa. Why would you ask such a thing? Shane is an honorable gentleman.”

Her father raised one grey brow. “Then why did he entice you onto his ship? What promises did he make that you would be so foolish as to go?”

She felt her face drain of blood. Her father had concluded that Shane had abducted her. Was that what Shane thought her father would think too? No wonder he'd had nothing to do with her on the journey back. “He did not make any promises.”

“I see.” The earl's voice was steely. “He felt there would be no consequences for this exploitation of you?”

Abigail widened her eyes. This was just getting worse and worse. “No, Papa. It was not like that. I…I wanted to go. I wanted…an adventure. Shane did not even know I was on board until we were well underway.”

Her father glanced down at her dress. “How could he possibly miss a woman on board his ship?”

She had packed two dresses in her duffel bag anticipating romantic dinners with Shane. “I wore…trousers.”

“You
what
?”

“Trousers,” she said, hating that her voice sounded shaky. “I tucked my hair under a hat. No one recognized me. I thought—”

“You apparently did not think at all,” the earl replied as Shane approached them. “We will discuss these atrocities later, young lady.”

“Yes, Papa.” Abigail kept her eyes down. She didn't think she could face Shane's wrath at the same time as her father's.

The earl turned to Shane, arms still folded across his chest. “I should call you out, Captian MacLeod.”

“Aye, sir, ye should.”

“No!” Abigail interrupted. “It is not his fault—”

“Silence!” her father barked the command.

Abigail dared a glance at Shane. He was regarding her with a solemn look. She had expected to see flashes of anger in his eyes—but he merely seemed resigned. He turned his attention back to the earl.

“Perhaps a duel could be avoided, sir, if I offered for your daughter's hand in marriage instead?”

She must tame a Highland barbarian…before he steals her heart.

Rogue of the Highlands

© 2012 Cynthia Breeding

Rogue, Book 1

With the death of her elderly husband, the Marquess Newburn, Jillian Alton is relieved that she will never have to endure another forced marriage. Until his long-lost son reappears to claim his title and holdings.

Left penniless, Jillian reluctantly accepts a tidy sum from the Prince of Wales to “refine” a Scottish Highlander who has inherited an English title—a man who shakes her resolve to never again let a man close enough to snare her in unwanted wedlock.

Ian MacLeod never planned to set foot in England, but the breakup of the clan system has left him in need of claiming the profits of his inherited English lands to support his people. When he meets the very proper Lady Newburn, he is intrigued…and determined to melt her icy heart.

It shouldn't be much of a challenge. After all, he's never met a lass who didn't quite willingly succumb to him. But he quickly learns that the beautiful, auburn-haired Jillian is no mooning maiden.

And there's something about her stepson that raises the hair on the back of his neck—a clear signal of danger that has never proved him wrong…

Warning:
This book contains a sexy Highlander who will make the most proper of ladies have very improper thoughts.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Rogue of the Highlands:

With a small sigh, Jillian stood up and smoothed her dress. “Remember, the man will be a guest in this house for several weeks. I'm sure if we treat him like a gentleman, he will act as one.” She wasn't sure if she believed that, but she wasn't about to have her maid entertain fantasies about any skirt-lifting.

She straightened her shoulders. Time to begin earning her money. She descended the stairs and moved toward the drawing room, pausing for only a second before she opened the door. And gasped.

What on earth was the man wearing?

Ian Macleod looked around the fancy parlor the skinny mon with the fancy suit and nose out-of-joint had shown him to. Light, filmy curtains hung at the windows, hardly anything to keep a night's chill out. Paintings of pale English men, trussed in lacy frills like some young bairn presented to the clan by a proud
maithar,
lined the walls. All of the chairs looked too fragile to hold his weight. How had he allowed that blethering idiot who had shown up at his holdings to talk him into this?

He didn't want to be an earl. Would have preferred never having to cross the Borders. His great-grandfather may have fought with King George in hopes of saving the clan, but his great-grandmother's people had rallied to Bonnie Prince Charlie. And all for naught. The Disarming Act had disbanded the clans and even forbidden a mon to blow the pipes or wear his plaid.

Which was why he was here. The English lands would provide enough profit for him to help his people. Once he had taken stock and felt confident he could leave an overseer in place, he would return to Scotland. He wanted as little to do with the English as possible. While it might be illegal for his people to be verbal about it, his clan still looked up to him as their laird. His younger brother, Jamie, would stand in his place while he took care of whatever he must do here. Between them, his people would be well.

Ian made a derisive sound, thinking about the suggestion the Englishman had made that some neighboring widow would give him lessons in manners. By the auld gods, he didn't need some auld woman telling him how he should act. A mon measured another mon by the strength of his sword arm and the worth of his word. Always protect children and never hurt a woman, although if she were willing, there was no harm to tupping her thoroughly.

He grinned suddenly. If those two silly lasses who'd giggled their way past him in the hall were any indication, he'd have no more trouble bedding English women than he did Scot ones. Although he was nigh thirty, he'd ne'r had a complaint from a lass, only purrs of pleasure after the act.

He looked up as the door opened and almost gaped. The woman in the doorway was breathtakingly beautiful. Her soft, chestnut hair was burnished with faerie gold and the deep green of her eyes reminded him of the tranquil depths of the forest near his home. Her fair skin was nearly translucent and she looked like a woodland nymph, except that the rounded fullness of her breasts outlined by the well-fitted bodice were very, very real. He felt his groin tighten painfully. Whoever this lass was, he meant to have her.

“Do ye work here, lass?”

One delicate eyebrow went up as she considered him. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose one could say that what I do on a daily basis is work.”

A bit long-winded the wench was, but he'd forgive her that. Her voice was as throaty and low as a burn rumbling gently downhill.

“And what do ye do?” he asked with a slow smile.

“One could say that I…run this household.”

“Ah. Ye be the housekeeper then.” Ian took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I'm the new earl at Cantford, here to see the widow. The auld woman is going to try to teach me English ways.”

“Indeed?” The lady walked past him rather stiffly to stand at the window.

“Aye. I dinna ken why. 'Tis nae wise to try to change a mon.”

“Indeed?” she said again.

Was that all the lass could say? He hoped she wasn't dim-witted. He liked a woman who could spar with him. In bed and out. But if she were nae bright, she was still beautiful. Standing by the window, the sun highlighted the faerie gold in her hair and accentuated the smooth curve of her cheek and the full lushness of her lips. He hoped that his sporran hid what his wayward tarse was doing. By Dagda, he'd never had such a strong reaction to merely sighting a lass before. And an English one at that.

“Is the widow taking a wee nap? I could come back later.”

“There's no need for that.” She raised her chin. “I am Jillian Alton, Marchioness of Newburn. I believe you are my pupil.”

For a moment he was nonplussed.
This
was the widow? This young lass? Och, being on English soil had just gotten much better. “I hope ye'll forgive the mistake. The
eejit—
the idiot—who told me about ye dinna say ye were a bonnie lass.” He gave her his most winning smile, the one his older sister always said made her forgive him for all his youthful escapades that she had to cover up for.

Lady Newburn ignored it. “Regardless of my age, Lord Cantford, what is expected by the Prince of Wales is that I prepare you for your new role.”

Ian's grin widened. “Ye'll find me a verra apt…pupil. I aim to please ye, Jillian.”